Peep
by Mia Cooper
Summary: You shouldn't be watching this. [Voyeurism, no redeeming qualities whatsoever.]


You're not sure what it is that wakes you. Maybe it's the freshening breeze coming off the ocean, or the squawk of a flock of alien birds. Maybe you moved in your sleep and ended up with one of those ferns tickling your nose. Or maybe it was the sound of soft laughter, your senses reminding you that you should be all alone out here and now … now you're not.

Two years in the Delta quadrant has made you hyper-alert, ever aware of the potential for danger. Now you're on an alien planet, blinking away sleep, nearly-naked, unarmed and vulnerable. And so you lie tense and perfectly still in your bed of waving grasses, listening as hard as you can.

There it is again – laughter. Soft and feminine, with a husky edge of mischief. You relax. There's only one woman you know with that distinctive edge to her voice.

But just as your muscles unwind and you begin to push yourself upright, you hear a different voice. Masculine, but just as low and as playful as hers.

"I didn't realise you had such a wicked streak, Kathryn."

 _Kathryn_? He calls her Kathryn? You've never heard anyone on this ship use her first name but her. You've certainly never heard her invite anyone to use it, but here he is, saying it as though it's something both natural and immeasurably precious to him.

"Oh, really?" teases the voice of your captain. "If you haven't figured that out by now, Chakotay, I'm not sure there's any hope for you."

"Two years I've known you, and I'm still just barely figuring you out, Kathryn Janeway."

In your state of surprise, you realise, you've just passed that delicate point in time at which revealing your presence has become more than awkward. Still, here goes nothing. You push up to your knees and prepare to clear your throat and apologise –

Oh. Oh, shit.

You've seen her out of uniform before… casual in hiking boots on shore leave, swathed in sweater and leggings at crew parties, elegant in silk at a diplomatic dinner.

But you've never seen her like _this_.

Your imagination is prodigious, and you can't deny that the captain has featured heavily in your fantasy life. Sometimes you imagine peeling her uniform away and revealing black lace, or shocking-pink silk, fine lean limbs and a creamy expanse of skin. Your imagination, though, is nothing compared to the reality of Kathryn Janeway in a halter top and shorts that leave bare the pale length of her legs.

And as for the commander … You've always appreciated a good-looking man, and he's no stranger to your more vivid imaginings, but those bulky shoulders, that smooth brown chest … You shift in position, uncomfortably aware that from this moment on, Chakotay is going to be invading your dreams on an even more regular basis.

You're so transfixed by the unprecedented sight of your commanding officers laughing together and wearing next to nothing that by the time you realise what's happening, it's almost too late to stifle your gasp.

And it's definitely too late to reveal your presence now.

The captain's face is tilted up toward Chakotay's, their bodies barely six inches apart. Sunlight bounces off the water behind them and her hair sways in the gentle breeze, just as her body sways toward the commander's. You watch with widening eyes as he lifts a hand to the back of her neck, sliding beneath the weight of her hair. A deft flick of his fingers and the halter comes undone. The scrap of cotton slithers away from her body.

You don't know where to look. There's a banquet before you, a feast of ivory skin and peach-tipped breasts, of dusky muscled arms and half-smiles and fingers that trace patterns on flesh. He's cupping her breast now, his hand broad and dark on its delicate curve. Your own fingers twitch in envy.

You wonder what it feels like to her.

She catches her breath, her eyes sliding half-closed and lips parted. He dips his head and presses his lips to her throat. She groans softly.

You should not be watching this. You can feel your cheeks flaming and there's an uncomfortable tightness in your shorts; you reach down to adjust it, but your hand lingers.

You struggle with the knowledge that what you're doing is wrong – invading the privacy of two people who have so little of it – and yet, as the captain tilts her head back and Chakotay's mouth finds her nipple, your fingers curl around their target. All it takes is another moan from the back of her throat and your nervous grip becomes short, steady strokes.

Her fingers are gripping his arms, a fine tremble in her limbs as his dark head works over her breasts. "Chakotay," she husks, and he drops to his knees, pulling her down with him, spreading her out on the tufted grass.

They've moved below your line of sight. You tussle with your conscience once again, but the soft sounds of sucking and the rasp of hands on skin are too much for you, and you edge forward, concealing yourself behind a conveniently placed rock.

He's crouched above her, his head moving slowly down the length of her torso. Her arms are flung over her head and she's gripping a clump of grass and biting down on her lower lip. Chakotay tugs at the waistband of her shorts and she lifts her hips, and you hold your breath as you watch him pull them away.

He dives between her spread thighs immediately, her mouth a rapturous O as she arches into him, and you wonder – how long has this been going on? How long have they been lovers? This is not the timid exploration of two people who are new to each other. It's clear that he knows exactly how to touch her – just _there_ , like _that_ – knows all her secret places, deft and sure and brazen. And she – she winds her fingers into his hair, holding him just so, her eyes clenched shut and spine bowed as he spirals her higher and higher –

Your hand is moving faster now.

" _Oh_ ," she gasps, and it's not the scream you half-expected from her but it's thrilling all the same, and you have to clamp your mouth shut to stifle a hiss.

She lies languid and boneless, her beautiful breasts rising and falling rapidly. You watch him drag his lips over her inner thigh, making her twitch and quiver, and you're so hard it _hurts_.

Chakotay's mouth drifts over the smooth skin of her abdomen, his hands cupping under her thighs. It's all soft, leisurely motion, almost worshipful. You wonder if this is what she likes – to be cherished like a goddess, like fine porcelain. It's not what you'd expect of her, but you'd do that for her if you had the chance. If that's what she wants. You'd stroke her, touch her gently, kiss her –

There's a blur of pale motion and tensed limbs, and she's suddenly astride him. Her hands pin Chakotay's shoulders to the ground, her thighs trap his hips, and she's grinning down into his face. She looks feral. She looks carnal.

She looks like she'll eat him alive.

If you'd thought you were hard before –

"Chakotay," she purrs. "That was very good."

He sprawls beneath her, relaxed as a jungle cat. "I aim to please."

"Oh, you did. You always do." Her smirk widens. "And now it's my turn."

With a sleek curl of her hips she sinks down onto him, taking him deep inside, and your mouth drops open as Chakotay lets out a groan. The captain undulates over him, hips rolling, spine arching. You watch as Chakotay's hands curl over her hips, pressing indents in white skin as she takes him. She's fierce and wild, and she's taking no quarter.

This is not a woman who wants to be revered.

You can't help yourself now. As their movements grow frantic and jerky, so do your own. Your eyes trace the long line of her throat as she throws her head back. Muscles bunch and flex in Chakotay's arms as he fights to control himself, to prolong the pleasure, but she's single-minded. She twists and thrusts and digs her fingernails into his chest and he howls, teeth bared as he surges into her. You watch her body ripple, her lips form the shape of his name, and then she's joining him in climax, just as you spill and gush into your inadequate palm.

And you pray, squeezing your eyes shut, they didn't hear the strangled moan that pushed its way from your throat.

Breath gusts from her as she settles onto his chest, his fingers weaving loosely through her hair. You can make out the shape of his lips moving but you can't hear his words. Whatever he's saying, it makes her smile.

The moment of rest is brief; she pushes upright, both of them sighing as he slips from her, spent.

"I'm going to take a swim," she murmurs, dipping her mouth to his briefly before she clambers to her feet. "Coming?"

"In a minute." He sits up, arms on his knees, his back to you as he watches her walking naked toward the unruffled ocean. She flicks him a flirty grin over her shoulder and he laughs.

You hold your breath. All you want now is to escape.

And then Chakotay speaks.

"I know you're there."

 _Fuck_.

He doesn't turn around. "Breathe a word of this to anyone," his says, voice soft with bridled menace, "and so help me, I'll make you wish you were never born."

You swallow hard, throat tight and dry; you learned long ago that the commander doesn't make idle threats.

"We clear, Paris?"

"Yes, sir," you mutter. "Crystal."

"Good." Chakotay stands and you avert your eyes from that big, nude body. Still with his back to you, he continues, "Make sure you're gone before the captain sees you. Any punishment I could dish out would seem like a vacation compared to what _she'd_ do to you."

Then he's ambling down toward the sparkling water, and you scramble for your combadge to call for a beam-out. As the transporter takes hold, you shake your head and try to control your grin.

Whatever terrible vengeance the command team might decide to enact upon you should the captain ever find out what you saw today, you reflect, _it was worth it_.

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End file.
